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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862175">space dust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/2PLYRGAY/pseuds/2PLYRGAY'>2PLYRGAY</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, I’m pretty sure that’s the case anyway, Jeremiah Heere is a pining fool, Lots of Angst, M/M, Michael’s stepmom is horrible, Mutual Pining, No SQUIP, OOH THIS IS FROM JEREMY’S POV BY THE WAY, Slow Burn :), fun times man, hi rich, many space jokes baybe, rich is also there yes, so is michael, somebody on wattpad thought it was Michael’s for the entire first chapter, spacecore vibez, things get really dark over here, uh suicidal thoughts, we all hate her, we’ll get there soon I promise, yes jeremy’s parents get divorced what are u gonna do about it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:34:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,297</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862175</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/2PLYRGAY/pseuds/2PLYRGAY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know you're special," he says. "we're all special."</p><p>His hand rests on mine, but I jerk it away. Whether I do that from gay panic or just general uncomfortableness, I'm not quite sure. He nods as if he's learned his lesson. </p><p>I turn my head back to the sky, "If you're so sure about it, then what makes me special? Hm?"</p><p>A long silence, awkward follows after that. I'm sure that he's got nothing to say since he knows I'm right. </p><p>He seems to think it through for a while.</p><p>"Space dust," he finally says. "we're all made of space dust, and I think that's what makes us all different...in our own little, special ways."</p><p>I look him up and down for a moment, trying to comprehend a response to whatever hippie, spacey bullshit he's trying to make me believe. Again. He's really got that space-themed analogy, and I'm unsure of how to feel about it.</p><p>"You know, if we're going by space metaphors,”</p><p>I lean in really close, our faces just inches apart. It makes the both of us feel uncomfortable. The way his face is turning red shows just how uncomfortable he is. </p><p>"I think I'm made more of dark matter."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jeremy Heere/Michael Mell, Rich Goranski/Jeremy Heere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. prologue - snap out of this</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>disclaimer: this story deals with heavy / sensitive / potentially triggering topics such as depression, suicidal thoughts, self-harm and mentions of suicide attempts. read at your own risk.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="scrollable">
  <p>The front of the classroom is no place for a new student to sit. Especially if that student has a history like mine.</p>
  <p>I'm finding it hard to stay awake, and it's not even first period yet. Mom dropped me off early so I could get a look at the place and find my classes before everyone else crams into the hallways. I remember her telling me goodbye with that perfect smile of hers, then she rolled the window up and drove off.</p>
  <p>Only <em>my</em> parents would make their child go back to school after spending weeks in the hospital. My therapist recommended that they transfer me to a different school because the old one had always caused me problems. I got bullied a lot, according to everyone else, and that's <em>supposedly</em> what sent me into my third attempt.</p>
  <p>Let's get one thing straight: I didn't try to do it because I was being bullied. I <em>wasn't</em> getting bullied. Even if I was, I wouldn't try to take my life because of it.</p>
  <p>Back to what I was saying about the front of the classroom. The teacher told me to sit here. I don't want to talk to anyone, not even the teacher, so I just listened without a word. Usually, I'd try to argue with the adult about this, but I've already argued with my parents today and I don't have the energy to argue any more.</p>
  <p>I tug on my sleeves, something I tend to do when I'm fidgety or just nervous. I wasn't planning on wearing black today. I told my mom that I'd wear something bright for my first day, like my light blue hoodie, and she was proud of me for it. But after I got pissed at her this morning, I quickly chose the black one just to get on her nerves. I'm sure I'm going to get called emo trash today (or something along those lines), but it's not like I haven't been called that before.</p>
  <p>The room is filled with uncomfortable silence, and I'm left wondering when the warning bell is going to ring. I look back at my schedule in my hand and read it for the millionth time. My ears and my mind begin to buzz. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of something to distract myself for a while, but it just makes everything look dark.</p>
  <p>I sit here with my eyes closed for a moment, wondering when that ringing will leave my ears. I wish I was at home right now, recovering like how I should be. I'm unsure if school was the right thing to do for me. Maybe I should discuss that with Dr. Wilson. I tell myself that I'll probably be fine, but <em>am</em> I going to be fine?</p>
  <p>The warning bell rings, causing me to jolt slightly. I quickly look back at the paper in my slightly clammy hands. I shouldn't be so nervous, especially since isn't the first time I've had to switch schools toward the end of the school year. I know things will be a little bit different here. Maybe the kids won't be so horrible and there won't be that many fights. But to be fair, the last school was kind of a ghetto school. I'm sure it'll be okay.</p>
  <p>Well, <em>everyone</em> says it'll be okay, but <em>is</em> it going to be okay?</p>
  <p>I don't know. Maybe, hopefully, I'll make it here if I just keep to myself. Several kids begin to step into the room, and my anxiety seems to spike. I've never been much of a people person. As more and more come in, I stay focused on the schedule in my hand, trying to memorize it more than I already have.</p>
  <p>I can't help but wonder what they're thinking. I hear a few murmurs, but nothing much after that. Only a few people notice me, and the boy who filled the seat next to mine doesn't seem to know I exist. <em>Good</em>. I don't intend on making any friends (or enemies) for the rest of the school year.</p>
</div><p>It's February. I'll survive for three more months, right?</p><p>Knowing me and my history...probably not. But the thought is what counts.</p><p>-</p><p>The day turned out slow. My school days were shorter at my last school by, like, an hour or so. I quickly figured out that this school is a lot more chaotic in the afternoons than in the early mornings, and that these people will stare at you and make snide comments about your looks with you sitting right in front of them. Tons of other people have done that last part before, but here it feels <em>worse</em> somehow. I just barely made it through.</p><p>The good news is that nobody wanted to be friends with me. That kid in math class kept glancing at me this morning, but when I looked back at him, he stopped. I have the feeling that I scared him.</p><p>Now I'm walking home from school because Mom or Dad couldn't be bothered to pick me up. I didn't want to take the bus, so here I am in forty degree weather. It could be worse, I guess. I'm almost home anyway.</p><p>Now thinking about it, I'm not sure if home is the place I want to be. I don't have any other choice, though. I'm sure my dad will be at work and my mom will be stressing over the fact that she won't divorce him. They don't love each other. They don't love <em>me</em>. I don't see why they're still living under the same roof.</p><p>I itch my cold nose as I get to my front yard, trudging through the grass to the front door. I don't bother with using the front walk. I immediately notice that Mom's car is in the driveway, which means that she's not at work, which means I'm going to have to deal with her questions about my day. I don't want to tell her any of that. If I did, she'd immediately call Dr. Wilson, which I don't want. Therapy just makes things worse. My parents trying to fix me makes me worse.</p><p>I step into the house, the smell of fresh-baked snickerdoodles hitting me like an ice cream truck. <em>Stress baking, </em>I think. <em>Of course. My mom is stress baking. </em>I close the door behind me and begin to trudge to my room, hoping that she doesn't notice that I'm back.</p><p>She calls from the kitchen, "Jeremy? Is that you, honey?"</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>"Yeah." I respond.</p><p>One thing my mom likes to do is to <em>pretend</em>that she gives a shit about me, when she really doesn't care at all. She argues with my dad all the time, tries to drag me with her when she wants to leave, but I refuse and she calms down and goes to bed. The cycle repeats itself. She knows how much I hate it. I'd be fine if she just decided to abandon me and never come back. She tried to when I was nine, but came back after a week because she 'missed her baby'.</p><p>Mom enters the living room from the kitchen, her graying hair messily tied back and cookie ingredients all over her black apron. My chest tightens upon seeing her. She smiles, which should bring me relief, but it doesn't. "How was your first day, sweetie?"</p><p>"It was fine." My automatic response, even if it was complete shit like today. Mom isn't buying it though. In my mom's mind, 'fine' is a warning sign because of my last attempt. I used to assure her that things were fine when they really weren't.</p><p>"Oh, Jeremy," She sighs, like she's disappointed in me. I look at my shoes. "What happened at school today? Did you meet anyone?"</p><p>"Literally nothing happened. Everyone avoided me like I'm the human embodiment of the bubonic plague."</p><p>She stands there for a moment and 'tsk's with a sigh. "You need anything? I can fix you a snack. I've been making your favorite."</p><p>"I don't want a snack. I'm headed to my room." And hopefully, I'll never have to come out of there again. Without another word, I turn on my heel and I head up the stairs, shoulders aching from the weight of my backpack. I'm ready to lay down.</p><p>My footsteps just barely echo off the walls. I've lived in this house since I was about eight, when we first moved to New Jersey from the countryside in New York. My room has pretty much stayed the same in these past nine years, except that I removed the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles posters forever ago and I've got a bigger bed since then. I still have all my stuffed animals in the corner of my bed and I haven't rearranged my room since the fifth grade. I've changed more than the room has. I used to be a pretty happy kid, I guess. I don't really know what happened.</p><p>When I get inside, I immediately drop my bag by my bed and I flop down onto the bed. I curl up into a ball and sigh, relieved that I'm finally here. I've missed laying in bed and doing nothing. I stare at the light blue wall, and I just think about whatever decides to come to mind first.</p><p>I think about how I'm staring at a wall.</p><p>There's a gentle knock on the doorframe, and I immediately know that it's Mom. I sit back up, my body feeling so heavy and so sore. I've already got homework to do, but I'm exhausted and I'll do it later. I look over at her with a 'what do you want' glance. She doesn't even try to ease me into this conversation, she just goes:</p><p>"Tomorrow's Tuesday."</p><p>"Yep." I say, popping the 'p'. My legs hang off the side of my bed. I stick them out in front of me and stare at my worn-out Converse instead of looking at my mom when she's talking to me. I hate making eye contact, especially with my parents.</p><p>"You know what that means?"</p><p><em>Therapy</em>. It means therapy. Another horrible, awkward hour and a half of something my parents pay for because they <em>think</em> it'll help me get better. "Yes, ma'am."</p><p>Mom sighs. Oh no. "Jeremy, I'm a little worried about you."</p><p>"Jeremy, I'm a little worried about you." I mock her.</p><p>"I'm being serious, honey." She says. I don't care if she's being serious. I stay quiet for few moments and I feel her stare. I wish she'd go away and just realize that I don't want to talk.</p><p>"My first day was just bad, okay? I'll...I'll try harder tomorrow," I force myself to tell her, though I don't believe myself. She won't believe it either. "Sorry for disappointing you."</p><p>"Jeremy, I'm not—"</p><p>"It's fine. I get it." I look at her for once. She looks guilty, like if all those times that she hasn't been here have finally found their way to her conscience. I hate how she's trying to be here now. It's probably because of what I did. As far as she knows, that's only the first time I've tried to do it. Not my third.</p><p>She's obviously trying to hide the pain this is causing her. Mom turns and she's about to leave, but she stops for a moment. I feel that she's going to try and talk to me about this again, but I'm relieved by what she actually says. "Get your homework done, Jeremy. There's snickerdoodles in the kitchen. Help yourself." She sighs.</p><p>I know she meant that I can help myself to however many cookies, but I have that feeling that she meant for me to help myself in more than one way. Maybe she's finally given up on me.</p><p>Good.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. one - i was just born like this</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The only good thing about therapy is that I get to miss school for an hour and a half, and I usually get a cheeseburger afterwards. I hate having to explain why I'm like this when I just don't know. Dr. Wilson is great, believe me. I'd probably be her friend if she wasn't my therapist. But she gets on my nerves and sometimes I just wanna slap her across the face. I don't know <em>why</em> I'm like this. Why can't she understand that?</p><p>Last night was kind of a trainwreck. I feel like my dad understands my issue more than my mom does. When he got home, he didn't bombard me with questions, which relieved me but pissed Mom off. Then she argued with him about it. While that was happening downstairs, I sat in my room, ate snickerdoodles and watched Cavetown videos among other things. When I woke up this morning, everything seemed fine. Dad was asleep on the couch (as per usual), and Mom was getting ready for the day.</p><p>As Dr. Wilson closes the door behind her, I decide to lay across the loveseat. It feels disrespectful, but she encourages me to get as comfortable as possible when I'm here. I decided that I'd take up on that offer today.</p><p>She's twenty-seven, I think. Her hair is long and dark. She's Hispanic, and her accent doesn't show very much, but it sounds nice when it does. She's not incredibly skinny or anything, but she's not chubby. It's not like I've been checking her out or anything, no. I've just noticed a lot about her. I like boys, not therapists who are ten years older than me.</p><p>She pulls her spinny chair from around her desk and stays a few feet away from me, like there's something wrong with me. There's tons of things wrong with me, but she doesn't need to stay away like that. It just pisses me off and adds to the urge to slap her.</p><p>"Good morning, Jeremy." She tells me.</p><p>"You said that already." I point out.</p><p>She ignores me. I think that's a bad idea if you're a therapist. "How's your morning been so far?"</p><p>"It's been fine," I lie. I know where this conversation is headed, so I just dive right in. "School's kinda hard, I guess. New kids and whatever."</p><p>"Have you made any friends?"</p><p>I shake my head. "Nope. And I'm not going to."</p><p>"That's your plan?"</p><p>"Mhm," I nod. "No friends, less pain. You know?"</p><p>I glance at Dr. Wilson, who's staring at me. That stupid voice in my mind tells me that she's judging me for not wanting friends. Somehow annoyed by that voice, I sit back up and I pretend like nothing happened.</p><p>"I can <em>try</em> and make friends if you want me to," I offer, though I know I'm lying to her. "I already promised Mom that I would."</p><p>"It could be good for you," She agrees. "If that's what you'd like to try, I'd say go for it."</p><p>The thing is, I don't want to try that at all. Last time I had friends, people got hurt. <em>I</em> got hurt. Bad things happened and I don't want them to happen again.</p><p>"Maybe." I respond instead, looking down at my worn out Converse. "I don't know."</p><p>I feel her stare. It's very, <em>very</em>reassuring. A few moments of awkward silence pass by, then she moves onto another sensitive topic. "Is anything at home bothering you?"</p><p>"How'd you guess...?" I ask, even though I know. My parents have been arguing since I was nine, and I've been going to therapy here for a year, so Dr. Wilson knows pretty much all of it.</p><p>"Lindsay's a little worried about you," She admits. Of course. Of <em>course</em> Mom mentioned something to her. "She thinks that maybe whatever's going on is affecting you."</p><p>"Well, they're arguing again. She refuses to divorce him," I tell her. "I don't know <em>why</em>. It should happen, especially since neither of them have much to stay for, but it hasn't."</p><p>"Well...have they <em>told</em> you that?"</p><p>"No..." I admit. "But it's there. I <em>know</em>it's there. They're just pretending."</p><p>And then I notice her clipboard. Her moving pen. The way she glances down and back up at me, how she's writing all of this down.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>I know it's supposed to stay between us, but what if it doesn't? If my parents found out what I'm saying, they'd probably hate me forever, even more than they already do.</p><p>My breath gets caught in my throat. I hate being hated, but it feels like everyone hates me. My old friends from my old school, my teachers, my parents, <em>everyone</em>at my new school. All I did was exist. I've never done anything to them.</p><p>Well, I don't think I did.</p><p>Next thing I know, hot tears are rolling down my cheeks. I have no idea if Dr. Wilson was trying to talk to me. I stifle my sobs and I bury my face into my sleeves. I look so red and ugly when I cry. She's trying to offer a tissue to me, I'm sure, but I don't want to look up. I don't want her to hate me too.</p><p>It all starts to hurt. My chest feels so tight. My hands are sweaty and I feel them trembling. Not another panic attack. Please, not another one. I hate these. I hate them so much.</p><p>I feel a hand wrap around my wrist, pulling my arm away from my face gently. I don't want it to happen at first, but I feel her grab my hand. She squeezes it in a motherly way and I finally let it happen. This isn't the first time I've broken down crying here. Dr. Wilson knows what'll make me feel better, kind of like a friend. But she's <em>not</em> my friend. She's my therapist.</p><p>I squeeze her hand back, but not too tight. Just enough to make me feel better. I hope she doesn't mind how sweaty mine is. She never really does.</p><p>I focus on my breathing like she advises me to. I'm eventually ready to open my eyes and return to the real world with my shaky hands and existential fear. Dr. Wilson hands me the tissue and I wipe away my tears. She's too nice. I press my cold hand against my burning face to bring some relief, then I toss the tissue into the tiny trashcan next to her desk.</p><p>"Can I go...? Can I leave?"</p><p>She nods, a gentle smile appearing across her face. I think it's supposed to be comforting, but it's not. "We can try again for next week."</p><p>-</p><p>It's been two weeks since I broke down in my therapist's office. I haven't gone back since.</p><p>Everything just seems to have gotten worse, but that could be side effects of my meds. Mom decided to get me back on antidepressants. I don't really mind it, I guess. Having more serotonin is nice. I just think that she's absolutely stupid for doing that. Sure, she monitors me when I take them, but you'd think that she wouldn't let her suicidal son take pills.</p><p>I've been sitting alone at lunch for the past two weeks. My spot in the cafeteria changes all the time. Nobody's really tried to talk to me, which is okay. It's <em>good</em>. It means my plan is going the way that it was supposed to. I won't have a repeat of what happened before.</p><p>Their arguing seems like it'll never stop. I wish my parents would just make up, or maybe just get rid of me. I don't distract myself anymore when it happens. I just listen through my bedroom floor with my ear pressed to the carpet. I hear my name get tossed in there a few times, stuff about money, stuff about happiness.</p><p>They're so unhappy. I wonder if I'm happier than they are, but I'm probably not. I'm so tired. So tired of feeling <em>empty</em>, of feeling absolutely nothing. I've been putting up with it for almost four years, and not even three attempts could make it stop.</p><p>When will it finally end?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. two - please don't worry, i'll be fine on my own</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="scrollable">
  <p>I wake with a start. Haunting screams continue to fill my ears for just a second. They sound just like how they did on that December night, then they simply dissolve like they never happened.</p>
  <p>I can feel my heart pounding inside my chest. I notice that I'm drenched in sweat, which is gross. There's this feeling I have that something bad is going to happen again, but I just woke up from a nightmare, so I think that's normal.</p>
  <p>My nightmares haven't been this bad since I was in the hospital. They're common, I usually don't go a week without having one, but they aren't usually like this. It's a little strange, how they're so vivid and realistic. Maybe it's just a side effect of the meds. It has to be, because it's honestly hard to tell if it was a dream or not.</p>
  <p>I sit up and look at my surroundings. I twist and turn a lot in my sleep, so my blankets are tossed around my bed. The plastic stars stuck on the ceiling are glowing. They aren't very bright. I finally hear the yelling downstairs, which isn't even an unusual occurrence in this house anymore. I'd do anything and everything to get it to stop, though.</p>
  <p>I take a deep breath and force myself to get out of bed so I can change out of my sweaty shirt. I pull up my sweatpants as I cross the room to my dresser, which is just a thing of mine I do. I always think my pants are too low when they aren't.</p>
  <p>I toss it somewhere on the floor and grab a different shirt. I realize how warm I am when the cold air hits my skin. It's weird. I'm pretty much radiating heat, and the cold doesn't bother me like it normally would. I hate when that happens.</p>
  <p>I quickly slip my shirt over my head, check to see if it's backwards, and then I let out a sigh. I can already tell that this is going to be a shitty day, but at least the arguing stopped...as of ten seconds ago.</p>
  <p>I shrug off the feeling and head back to my bed. By the time I lay back down, I hear my door open. <em>Fuck.</em></p>
  <p>There's a few moments of silence, and then my mom's voice: "Jeremy...? Are you up?"</p>
  <p>"No..." I reply. I hear a soft laugh, but it doesn't sound like it's a genuine one. After hearing a few footsteps, I feel her sit on the end of my bed. I wonder if she's judging the fact that it's unmade.</p>
  <p>"Did that wake you up?" She asks, and I know she's referring to that argument. I don't get why she's coming to check on me after <em>one</em>argument. There's been so many others that have actually woken me up, and nobody came to check on me then.</p>
  <p>"I woke up before. Nightmare."</p>
  <p>"Jeremy," She begins. Not this. It's too early for this, for whatever she has to say. "Can we talk? I'm worried and—"</p>
  <p>"Mom, I'm fine," I sit back up, already frustrated. I don't notice it at first, but I think Mom flinches. "I've got my stupid medication. I'm fine."</p>
  <p>"Jeremy—"</p>
  <p>"What?!" I snap. Mom falls silent, and I immediately become guilty. I shouldn't have yelled like that. I ask again, but softer. "What...?"</p>
  <p>She stares at me like I'm supposed to know, but I don't. I make a face of confusion and she sighs. Not an annoyed sigh, a sad one.</p>
</div><p>"Your father and I are getting a divorce."</p>
<p>
  <em>Finally.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>...</em>
</p>
<p>That really shouldn't have been my first thought.</p>
<p>I sit there for a few moments, honestly stunned because I didn't see this coming. I thought it wasn't going to happen. I <em>knew</em> it wasn't going to happen. I figured that they would've just kept arguing and then ignoring each other. Now that I'm thinking about it, ignoring each other would've been the stupidest solution ever.</p>
<p>One question pops into my mind and immediately tumbles out of my mouth: "Which one of you is leaving me?"</p>
<p>Mom doesn't respond. She just sits there with that same guilty look she always wears. If she left, I'd be fine. I could take care of myself. I wouldn't be forced to go to therapy. I wouldn't have anyone to watch me take my antidepressants, and I wouldn't even be forced to take them.</p>
<p>But who's going to pretend to care about me if she's gone? Not my dad. He isn't very involved in my life and keeps his distance. He hardly talks to me. I'd probably be happier with him than with my mom, though, even if he's kind of shitty at parenting. He used to be a good dad, then they started fighting, and it's like he gave up on both my mom and I. He just goes to work and when he's done, he comes home and does more work stuff. He barely communicates with me.</p>
<p>I wonder which one of them is the bad guy in this situation.</p>
<p>But holy <em>shit</em>. My parents are getting a divorce. There was a time forever ago where we were a happy, perfect family, and now we're...not. And we're never going to be a family again. My parents hate each other and they probably hate me and everything's just going to shit.</p>
<p>The tears come before I try stopping them. I quickly wipe them away as they fall. I hate crying. I hate this. Mom, being the annoying yet concerned person she is, tries to reassure me that; "It's okay to cry."</p>
<p>"N-No, it's n-not," I respond with a sniffle, shaking my head rapidly. "It's not."</p>
<p>She rests her hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. "Please just—just go? I-It'll be...I'll be fine."</p>
<p>She kisses me on the forehead and then sighs. "We'll talk about this after school."</p>
<p>"Wait," I say, ignoring the tears spilling from my eyes. She stops in her tracks and turns to me. "C-Can you grab my pills? I know it's early, but...please?"</p>
<p>Mom nods, and she looks sort of impressed. I don't ever ask to take them when I know I need them. I just do it when she tells me to. She leaves the room and I take a moment to calm myself, to stop crying and to process everything.</p>
<p>So, this is really happening. They're really splitting. I'm going to have to choose between them and potentially hurt the other by doing that. <em>Great</em>. This is just the fucking cherry on top of all of the shit I've been through in the past four months.</p>
<p>I can't help but wonder if this was also my fault. The universe is really out to hurt me in the worst ways possible.</p>
<p>Just as quickly as she left my room, Mom returns with a cup of water and the medication. I've always hated swallowing pills. It's been a fear of mine since forever, and I have no clue why. The only bad experience I had with pills was my last...</p>
<p>I don't finish that thought. She gives me the pill and I swallow it, even with my existing paranoia. I make a little grabby hand; Mom gives me the glass of water and I take a drink. It helps with my nerves a bit.</p>
<p>A few moments pass by and I look back at Mom. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. It was rude."</p>
<p>"You aren't upset with me or anything...right?"</p>
<p>"What...?" I shake my head. "No, I'm not. I don't...you're my mom."</p>
<p>I have no clue of what I'm actually trying to say. I just don't want her to really think I hate her. That would just make things worse.</p>
<p>"Right," She laughs one of those 'I asked such a stupid question' laughs. "I'm gonna go lay down, okay?"</p>
<p>"Okay."</p>
<p>She ruffles my hair and kisses my head again, then she leaves me alone in here. She doesn't even close the door. I'm too tired to get up and close it, so I just set the cup down on the nightstand and lay down. I end up staring at the ceiling instead of going back to sleep. I cuddle a stuffed animal too. It's not the most productive way to pass time, but it works.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>I rode the bus to school today because Mom was asleep. I tried waking her up because she probably has work, but she didn't budge, so I just left for the bus. She had a rough night and I get that. It must've been worse than I think, because I couldn't find Dad this morning. I'm pretty sure she mad him leave after that.</p>
<p>The bus wasn't a bad experience, I've ridden the bus, like, a million times already, but it wasn't a pleasant experience. It was just a bus ride that made me even more exhausted than I already am. Every little thing is getting on my nerves because of how tired I am, including the kid who sits next to me that keeps staring at me.</p>
<p>He's got tan skin and dark eyes that are framed by his glasses. His hair is a mess but he makes it look decent. You can see the tiniest trace of freckles on the bridge of his nose. Those are kind of hard to find on people who aren't white. It looks kind of weird, but also cool.</p>
<p>He's just another random, tired face. He's got a name that I'm not going to learn. He's got a life I'm not going to be involved in. I'm just going to ignore him and his stares.</p>
<p>"Hey, um..." He laughs nervously, and I immediately turn my head to look him in the eye. "Can you help me? I just...I don't get this at all."</p>
<p>Correction: he's another random face and I'm going to help him do math, but then I'm going to ignore him.</p>
<p>"I can try..." I tell him. He nods and sets the paper on my desk, kneeling in the aisle between his desk and mine. He points to the problem and I stare for a few moments, "Um...I'm pretty sure you just...multiply that."</p>
<p>"Oh," He says, then he finally seems to get it. "Oh! Right, right, I'm so dumb, I'm so sorry."</p>
<p>"It's okay." I automatically respond, turning back to my own paper.</p>
<p>Not even a second later, I hear a random noise from my left. I look in the aisle and his green pencil is sitting there. I impulsively reach for it at the time that he does, and our hands touch.</p>
<p>I'm quick to pull away because, ew, physical contact. He pulls away just as quickly and doesn't even pick up the pencil. I notice the way he goes red in the face.</p>
<p>He buries his face into his hands for a good moment, then he looks back at me and smiles awkwardly. "Sorry about that..."</p>
<p>"Um, it's fine." I say. I pick up the pencil and hand to him. He takes it and looks back at his paper, continuing to work like nothing happened. I swear that I see his pencil shaking in his hand.</p>
<p>Weird.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>In between fourth period and lunch, I struggle to get my locker open. I know the combination and everything, but there's a little trick that I have to do to open my locker and I keep messing up. and right as I back away, that same kid from math steps in front of my locker door, which scares the absolute shit out of me.</p>
<p>"What?" I say in a tone that probably sounds rude. I don't mean for it to, it just happens because I'm starting to become annoyed with this kid. I don't even know his name, and it feels like he's kind of obsessed with me. He's talked to me so much already and it's not even second period. Maybe I'm just not used to having people be friendly to me, but I don't want to be friendly.</p>
<p>Despite my tone, he manages a smile. "I was wondering if, maybe, you'd want to sit with me at lunch today?"</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, but..." I pause to try to come up with an excuse, but all that comes out is: "No."</p>
<p>"Oh...well, that's okay," He says. "Thanks for letting me ask. Have a nice day."</p>
<p>He walks away before I can stop him, muttering to himself. That's <em>definitely</em>weird, but I do that every time I get rejected like that too, so I can't really judge him for that.</p>
<p>I quickly put in my combination again and I successfully manage to pop open my locker. I notice a piece of bright green, neatly folded paper fluttering onto the floor from inside. I don't remember seeing it before, so my curious ass picks it up to see what it is. I unfold it and struggle to read the shaky handwriting at first, but the message soon becomes clear.</p>
<p>
  <em>'day 1 of space-themed sticky notes until you actually notice me: </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>let me orbit around that ass ;)'</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi the writing in this sucks n it's very long?? but i got very important plot points and foreshadowing into this chapter so that's all that matter to me rn. :))</p>
<p>also sorry if some stuff seems to be missing or out of place i wrote the majority of this in a rush</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. three - the master of one fuck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's official. I no longer give a fuck.</p>
<p>Why? Well, first off, somebody's been flirting with me over sticky notes. I didn't want friends in the first place, and now somebody's got a <em>crush</em> on me. I'm not sure how to feel about that.</p>
<p>It went from one sticky note in my locker a day to several of them a day, so I've gotten a ton of them in the past week. They've got space-themed jokes and pick-up lines, like promised. They make me feel special, I guess, but I really don't understand what the point is in them.</p>
<p>Second off, my parents are <em>still</em> arguing, but now it's because they don't know who's leaving yet. I really don't want either of them to leave. I don't want to be left with my mom because I don't know if I can deal with that, but my life is just going to get worse without her around.</p>
<p>I don't stay in the house when they argue anymore. I just go in the backyard and lay down in the grass, even if it's the middle of the night. They don't notice.</p>
<p>I feel like as if I just don't give a fuck, things won't get any worse. Nobody will get hurt and I won't break shit. If I have this 'fuck all of you, but also there are zero fucks given' attitude, all of my problems will just disappear.</p>
<p>But the problem is, I really <em>do</em> give a lot of fucks; so to get rid of that problem, I'm just deciding to let them go. No fucks for me.</p>
<p>Wow, Jeremy. That makes no sense whatsoever.</p>
<p>I check the time on my phone <em>again</em>. Lunch is almost over, so I guess I should start scarfing down my food. The Walmart sack that's holding my lunch sits next to me on the floor, completely unbothered.</p>
<p>It doesn't take me that long to realize that I'm not going to have enough time to eat. Whatever, I really don't feel that hungry right now anyway.</p>
<p>I've become very familiar with the school bathroom, or if we want to be exact, the very last and biggest stall. It's the worst place to eat lunch in this school, but it gives me enough privacy to do things—like wonder why my life is so hard.</p>
<p>I take the physics textbook (that I may have accidentally stolen) out of my open backpack to make room, then I shove the Walmart sack in there. I silently promise to eat the food later—a promise I know that I'm not going to fulfill. I zip up the backpack.</p>
<p>I pull the first note from today out of the side pocket and read it for the <em>millionth</em> time, lightly soaking the paper with the sweat from my <em>super</em> sweaty hands.</p>
<p>
  <em>another fun fact for you: space is completely silent. oddly enough, so are you. please talk to me.</em>
</p>
<p>Now this person's just making me feel bad. I don't even know who's writing these. I really don't <em>want</em> to know either, but the suspense is killing me. I'm hoping that it isn't one of those weird kids so that I don't have to pity them entirely, but then again, <em>anyone</em> who's had a crush on me in the past was one of those weird kids.</p>
<p>I just don't get it. Who'd think that they'd want to be with me? Who would look at my stupid, ugly freckled face and think <em>I'm going to flirt with him?</em></p>
<p>Whatever. I don't care, right? Zero fucks given, remember?</p>
<p>I crumple up the note and shove it back in my hoodie pocket. I should get to class. I don't need to worry about this love shit right now.</p>
<p>I get on my feet and grab my bag. I hold my book close to my chest; it makes me feel secure.</p>
<p>Finally. I'm getting the hell out of this bathroom.</p>
<p>After functioning on autopilot for god knows how long, I'm in physics class, headed to my seat in the front. (I sit in the front in almost <em>all</em> my classes. Something tells me that I have to be monitored—I have no clue why.) This class is my least favorite; it's filled with horny, popular <em>assholes</em> and the teacher's a prude.</p>
<p>Usually, I look at my shoes to avoid all eye contact with my peers, but the <em>one</em>time I look up, I nearly trip over a backpack laying in the aisle. I stumble forward, causing my book to slip out of my arms. It lands on the floor with a loud <em>thud</em>.</p>
<p>"Shit!" it just slips out; I regret it as soon as I say it. I feel at least twenty eyes staring at me. I glance around the room for the teacher, and luckily she's not here yet.</p>
<p>I lean over to grab my book, but it's gone. I hear a snicker and I look over to my side; the boy who sits next to me has it. My eyes meet his and suddenly, I can't look away.</p>
<p>Okay, I've never really...looked at him, but I'm glad I did. Shit, he's so pretty. Freckles look way better on him than they do on me. I like the pink hoodie he's wearing, and I find myself wanting to wear it because it's his. I want to wear his hoodies, and I want to run my hands through his blond hair, and I wish that he would—</p>
<p>Wait, stop. I'm thinking too much. I'm thinking <em>way</em> too much; he hasn't even spoken a word to me.</p>
<p>But holy <em>shit,</em> I haven't felt like this in years.</p>
<p>I slowly sink into my seat, still staring at him and still completely brain-dead. I'm probably shaking. He gives me a funny look; probably because I haven't looked away in about a minute and I'm <em>still</em>staring.</p>
<p>I begin to stammer, "S-Sorry. I didn't mean to cuss."</p>
<p>"It's okay. I don't have much of a filter either," He laughs. I feel my heart skip a few beats—<em>no, Jeremy, get out of your head.</em> I swallow thickly.</p>
<p>"Here's your book." He holds it out for me to take, so I do. Our hands touch for a second and I feel like I'm going to burst. I play it cool.</p>
<p>"Thanks," I say, but not loud enough for him to hear.</p>
<p>We stare at each other for a few moments. He's probably trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me, and I'm trying to find more things to like about him.</p>
<p>"You're the new kid," he says after a moment, and I nod. It took him three <em>weeks</em>to realize that, and he sits next to me in class; I can't fucking believe him. But he's cute, and those fucking dimples are really killing me, so... maybe I can.</p>
<p>"I'm Rich." He tells me.</p>
<p>"I'm Jeremy,"</p>
<p>A tiny part of me expects him to compliment my name or something, but he makes a face—nose scrunched up and everything; it makes me feel gross—and he says this to me instead: "I heard you weren't very friendly."</p>
<p>"What? No, no, I'm super friendly. I'm the friendliest." I lie. Who the fuck told him <em>that?</em> I haven't interacted with anyone here except for my teachers... and that one kid from math class.</p>
<p>The one who I completely rejected.</p>
<p>Fuck<em>. That </em>must've been who told him.</p>
<p>"You don't look mean." Rich agrees, which brings me relief. Well, actually, now I'm offended. I'm <em>supposed</em> to look mean. I haven't spent years trying to perfect my resting bitch face for no reason.</p>
<p>But I don't say that. I just say, "Thanks." Then I realize what I just said. Am I <em>supposed</em> to say thanks to that?</p>
<p>I don't think so, but it makes him laugh, which makes me feel weak. That <em>smile. </em>That fucking smile.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>Okay, maybe I give <em>one</em> fuck.</p>
<p>And that one fuck is definitely about that Rich kid.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi this sucks and it's very stupid I'm sorry</p>
<p>ignore any plot holes i didn't proofread and i am SO DONE with this chapter. Take it or else.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. four - please forget me and be happy on your own</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry 4 the wait !!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I'm sitting on the couch, watching South Park with my dad. I hate this show. I don't understand why I'm sitting here and watching it.</p><p>I could be doing anything—<em>everything</em> else. I could be doing my homework or watching Cavetown again, but no; I'm watching South Park with my dad.</p><p>I really don't know how I'm related to him—I'm literally the complete opposite of him. I'm a stick, my hair is thick and curly and messy, I doubt that I'll ever grow a beard like that. I don't just sit on the couch, watch TV and eat chips all night after work (or in my case, school). Despite my current state, I actually do stuff.</p><p>I'm not sure if he's trying to be my parent at all. I don't even remember the last time it felt like he actually cared.</p><p>"I met someone new in physics," I say, trying to act as casual as ever. "he's really nice."</p><p>Dad doesn't take his eyes off the TV. Hell, he probably didn't even hear me. I thought he might've been proud of me for meeting new people, but he probably doesn't even know that I stopped talking to everyone. Mom only knows because she can't stay out of my life.</p><p>"Yeah," I laugh, because my attempt at conversation is just so fucking sad. "he's, um...he's great."</p><p>My parents don't know that I'm gay, so I've got to be careful with what I say about Rich to avoid suspicion. They probably don't care if I am or not, but I've never bothered telling them. I probably won't tell them until—<em>unless</em>. I won't tell them <em>unless</em> Rich and I get together, which we won't because I know he doesn't like me back, so I'm never going to.</p><p>I look at my dad, who still isn't paying attention. The stupid cartoon voices are getting to my head; they've probably gotten to his too. I don't even know why I bother trying—he doesn't care. That's been obvious for years.</p><p>He used to hit us. That's one of the things I remember from my <em>fantastic childhood.</em>Things changed and so did he after I got diagnosed, but I still flinch at times. So does my mom. He was good, and then they started arguing, then he was bad, and now he's... I don't even know. An alcoholic, maybe? I don't pay attention anymore.</p><p>You know what? Fuck this, fuck South Park, and fuck my dad. I'm out.</p><p>"Good talk," I end this one-sided conversation, and I get up off the couch.</p><p>I drag myself up the stairs, and it feels like it takes hours to do so since I'm so tired. Time goes by so slowly these days. It seems to take forever, and forever, and forever, until finally, I'm in my room again, in my bed again; let me just say, it feels really fucking nice.</p><p>Today's been...super eventful. I kind of just want to sink into the depths of my piles of blankets and bedsheets and never return.</p><p>But I have stuff to do, which sucks. I have to graduate first before I can ever think about sinking into blanket hell. I roll over and grab my backpack off the floor.</p><p>Homework time. Yay.</p><p>Well, that's what's <em>supposed</em> to happen. But instead of doing homework like I should be, I just read over those sticky notes again, because fuck school. I'm so mesmerized by these notes. I guess it's since I've always had a thing for space. Maybe if I wasn't so hung up on Rich, I'd care more about who's leaving them. They kind of help me get through the day.</p><p>And if I'm being honest, if I knew who this person was, I'd date them immediately. No questions asked. These notes are extremely clever. Well, I probably wouldn't date this person if they were a chick, but I haven't made eye contact with a single girl in the past three weeks, so I think it's a he or maybe a them. I really wouldn't mind the latter. Someone I once dated was non-binary.<br/><br/></p><p>For a split second, I look up, and my mom is standing by the doorway. Shit. My mom is standing by the doorway. I shove the notes in my bag, like they were never there in the first place. That probably looks suspicious, but my mom doesn't seem to notice. She's too tired for this. I can tell. She doesn't even smile at me.</p><p>I shift awkwardly in my spot. "I, ah...hi. How was work?"</p><p>"It was fine," she says. Just fine? Jesus Christ, could she be any more depressing right now?</p><p>Oh. Now I see how everyone else feels about me.</p><p>Lovely.</p><p>"That's...good," I say. Mom nods, then she sighs. I feel a little guilty for bothering her, but then again, she's the one who walked in here, so...</p><p>"I'm gonna go lay down, Jeremy, okay?"</p><p>"Wait, actually, before you go, I have something to tell you," I say. I'm kind of shocked at the fact that I'm actually taking initiative for once.</p><p>Mom turns around, and she actually looks...interested. She's listening. Okay, this is good. Now I can just tell her that I'd rather have her stay here with me instead of my dad, you know, because divorce things. And there shouldn't be any consequence to this, right? Right.</p><p>"I want you to stay," I tell her. She looks confused and taken aback. "I don't want either of you to leave, but if one of you has to, I want <em>you</em> to stay."</p><p>She stands there for a few silent moments, the most blank expression on her face. She seems to be processing what I said. My hands get clammy, and I feel my face go red. Then the worst thing happens.</p><p>"Oh, honey," she says in that fake sympathetic mom voice. "do you need to go back to therapy?"</p><p>I shake my head, confused. "What are you talking about?"</p><p>"Is there something wrong?"</p><p>"There's nothing wrong," I say. "did you just—<em>not</em> hear what I said?"</p><p>"I heard what you said," she protests.</p><p>"So you just <em>ignored</em> it," I roll my eyes. "do you <em>not</em> wanna stay? Do you just wanna leave again?"</p><p>"Jeremy, I—"</p><p>"N-No, I get it," I laugh. It's not a happy laugh. "I'll just—I'll just leave you alone."</p><p>I get up from my bed, and I decide to make my way to the backyard. I'm sure that I'll be there for a while, anyway—it's obvious that things will go awry again tonight. Mom will get mad over some dumb thing that my dad said, they'll yell; the cycle repeats itself.</p><p>But I don't get very far; Mom stops me before I can go any further than my doorway. "Where are you going?"</p><p>"The backyard. I've been going out there for weeks," I say, shrugging her hand off my shoulder. "you just didn't fucking notice."</p><p>Oh my god. Shit. I have no filter whatsoever.</p><p>Mom isn't pleased. I can sense the anger and irritation from here; it's all in her expression too. "I'm sorry?"</p><p>My hands clench into fists. I just dig myself a deeper hole. "Fuck you,"</p><p>I've been wanting to say it for so long. I could get beat for this, honestly, but what do they expect from me? I'm a problem child.</p><p>She stands there, stunned. My brain tells me to keep talking, much to my own dislike. "Quit pretending like you care, because I know you don't."</p><p>"Jeremy, I do care about you—"</p><p>"No, you only care about <em>fixing</em> me! About fixing the emb—the embarrassment of a child you had by accident." Words keep tumbling out. I can't make it stop. "You don't care about my feelings."</p><p>A few moments pass, and my mom doesn't say anything. Hundreds of different thoughts swirl around my mind, none of them being positive. My hands are shaking so much. I don't feel okay anymore.</p><p>I see the look on her face; there's nothing but pure disappointment. She hates me. She fucking hates me.</p><p>Isn't that just <em>perfect?</em></p><p>I blink; tears that I didn't even know were there fall down my face. I'm quick to wipe them away. I don't want to be seen as even more pathetic than I already am.</p><p>"I-I don't need to be <em>fixed,</em>" my voice is shaky too. I'm really struggling to hold my ground here. "I don't need therapy, I don't need medicine."</p><p>Another awkward silence. I sense even more anger, even more disappointment. Goddamnit. God fucking damn it.</p><p>Something in my mind tells me that this conversation's over, so I decide to leave. But before I go, I just <em>have</em> to turn around and say one more thing—that's just how my brain works. I have to finish what I started.</p><p>"I don't <em>need</em> any of it. I'm fine. I'm perfectly fucking okay."</p><p>I really know I'm not.</p><p>-</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. five - how to stop myself? hell, if i know</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I didn't want to get out of bed this morning. I almost couldn't.</p><p>All I wanted to do was sleep—I didn't need to, but the longer I sleep, the slower my heartbeat goes, and that's the closest I get to...you know. Dying.</p><p>Sometimes death feels like my only option, especially on my bad days. But no matter how much I crave it, death just never comes to me. It's awful. It's annoying. It would be so much easier to live as a spirit than live as a person, and so much more awesome. I wouldn't have to suffer so much. I could just go wherever, scare the shit out of whoever.</p><p>If I sat in my bed long enough, I'd die, and that's what I told myself. It took a lot of internal arguing, and I ended up getting up anyway, my only motivation being those stupid space notes—and Rich, of course. I took my meds and skipped breakfast. I half-assed my morning routine, and then I rode the bus to school again to avoid an awkward car ride with my parent. I got a seat in the back all to myself, which I liked.</p><p>Since I didn't get myself ready properly this morning, my hair's a complete mess and my face is all gross. It doesn't feel nice—I feel so disgusting. But that's what depression does to you, I guess. You can't even be bothered to take care of yourself properly.</p><p>I threw my hood on, and I'm praying to a God I don't believe in that I'll get to keep it on all day. Everyone would just leave me alone then. Maybe I wouldn't have any issues.</p><p>I actually <em>haven't</em> had any issues this morning so far, surprisingly. That glasses kid from math class was awfully quiet. He didn't try to make any advances toward me today, but he caught me checking to see if he was looking a few times. I've never felt more like a stalker.</p><p>But now that math is over, the rest of the day should be so much more easier. School isn't the hardest part of today, anyway. <em>Living</em> has been the hardest part. I'm alive, but I feel like I'm dying inside. I'm trying to keep it together, I really am. I'm trying to feel like <em>not</em> shit. My meds are the only thing keeping me from slipping again.</p><p>I'm trying to find joy in the little things, like Dr. Wilson had once suggested. Maybe it really <em>would</em> help me. I put my heavy textbooks away in my locker, so my bag is so much less heavy, which is nice. My locker didn't struggle to open today, either. Also, it wasn't that cold this morning; I don't like being cold, so that was nice as well.</p><p>Yeah, those are pretty lame. I'm working on it, though. At least I'm trying.</p><p>If we're still finding joy in the little things, I found another sticky note in my locker. That was probably the best part of today. Is it possible to be in absolute love with two people at once? Because goddamn, the notes person is so fucking smooth, and I might as well be in love with them and with Rich.</p><p>I turn around, ready to leave my locker and to head to my next class; Honors English. Yeah, that's a big deal, I guess. As I begin to walk away, I keep my eyes glued to my shoes, which is a bad idea. I nearly crash into a boy.</p><p>"Shit, sorry! I-I wasn't looking," I apologize. Goddamnit. Enough with the apologizing, Jeremy. It takes a moment to process the fact that I'm looking right at the cute boy from physics who picked up my book yesterday. Rich. I feel my heartbeat speed up.</p><p>"Oh, uh...hey," I say. Smooth. I'm <em>so</em>fucking smooth.</p><p>"Hey," he responds, a pretty smile on his face. Holy shit. His eyes immediately land on my note. "whatcha got there?"</p><p>I look down at my note too, for no reason whatsoever. "Oh, it's just...just a note. Some random space fact."</p><p>"So I've been leaving them in the right locker."</p><p>It takes me longer than it should for me to figure it out. When I do, I feel myself grow nervous. Not that bad kind of nervous that I always feel. A good kind, if there is one. My face warms up and I feel tingly, like I do when I'm nervous, you know. This kind just feels more...pleasant. The only feeling I've ever felt around Rich.</p><p>I have so many questions, but I don't ask a single one—I'm too shocked. I'm oddly relieved too, since this should mean that no weird kids have been flirting with me.</p><p>"So, <em>you're</em> the one who's been leaving these in my locker?"</p><p>"Mhm," he hums. Oh my god. There's no way that this is real. This has to be a dream, because crushes don't ever do this shit. They ignore you. They don't like you back. They treat you like garbage and toss you aside. They do <em>not</em> return the feelings you have for them. This stuff only happens in movies. It's so random, too—especially since we just technically met yesterday. But I'm not complaining.</p><p>"That's—that's so cool," I manage. <em>So cool? </em>What the hell? Great, now Rich is laughing at me...but it doesn't feel like he's <em>laughing</em> <em>at</em> <em>me. </em>He's just laughing.</p><p>"You should sit with me at lunch today," he suggests, still smiling. Lunch? Ugh, that means social interaction. I don't have to agree to it—but my big brain always finds a way to screw things up.</p><p>"S-Sure. Yeah."</p><p>"Cool!" He grins. It's adorable. "I'll see you then. And in class."</p><p>And he skips off, just like that. I stand here for a few moments, processing what just happened. Holy fuck.</p><p>My day just improved by a million percent.</p><p>Fuck, I'm so gay. I smile, and holy shit, it feels amazing. I haven't smiled in forever. That fact just makes me smile even more, and it makes me laugh. If I could feel this way forever, I could.</p><p>Before I head to class, I look down the hall. I see glasses kid. He's staring at me. When he notices that I'm looking, he looks away and turns the corner. It's almost like I scared him off.</p><p>I look back at the sticky note in my hand, and back at the place where he just was. He noticed my little moment. He probably thinks I'm weird or something.</p><p>But do I care? No, I don't. I get to have lunch with Rich, and that's all that matters right now.</p><p>-</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. six - is it being greedy to need somebody to see me?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="scrollable">
  <p>I'm slowly starting to regret my decision.</p>
  <p>It isn't Rich's fault at all, no. I just hate social interaction. Really badly. I'm sitting at a table with him and his friends who I don't know; the kind of people who treated me like garbage on my first day, like the tall, athletic-looking black guy, and the half-blonde girl who's always attached to her phone (and also the tall guy?) and whose wardrobe appears to consist of just crop tops. I don't remember their names, even though Rich introduced them to me. I guess he did that when I spaced out or whatever it was to avoid having a panic attack.</p>
  <p>But there's good things in this lunch, I guess—like Rich. He's been keeping me occupied, even though he's talking with his friends. I've just been looking at him. I like looking at him. He's pretty.</p>
  <p>He grabs my hand like it's the most casual thing in the world; he doesn't even take his eyes off his friends. He doesn't seem to mind my trembling. Our hands are on the table, on display for the whole entire world to see.</p>
  <p>"Aren't you gonna eat?" He asks me. I don't have a lunch today. Oops.</p>
  <p>"Oh...I'm not hungry." I tell him, which isn't a lie. If I ate, I'd probably puke it all up because of how nervous I am.</p>
  <p>"Awh, does little Richie finally have a boyfriend? He's growing up, Jake," the girl interrupts our conversation. She nudges the guy's shoulder. He smiles and laughs, and then she smiles and laughs. I feel my face go red.</p>
  <p>"What?" Rich lets go of my hand. It hurts more than it should. "No. We're not—we aren't a <em>thing.</em>"</p>
  <p>Ouch.</p>
  <p>"Sure, whatever you say, Richie," the girl teases.</p>
  <p>"Stop calling me Richie! It's so annoying," he says, but he doesn't look annoyed. Hell, he's even smiling, which makes me feel the happiest I can feel in this situation.</p>
  <p>"Wait," the other guy—Jake, I think his name is—looks right at me. He inspects me for a moment. Yes, <em>inspects. </em>It's making me feel uneasy. "Didn't <em>you</em> go to school across town?"</p>
  <p><em>Something bad is about to happen! </em>My brain says. I wish I had something to grab onto, like, oh, I don't know, Rich's hand? But that's not happening any time soon, so I grab onto the sides of the seat underneath me.</p>
  <p>"Yeah," I reply, and I even nod to get my point across. "I, ah, I switched schools just a—just a few, uh, weeks ago."</p>
  <p>"You were a part of that stoner crew," the unnamed girl says. Her tone is just as bitchy as I expected it to be, which annoys me. They weren't a <em>stoner crew,</em> they were my <em>friends. </em>They just happened to smoke weed. I just happened to smoke with them.</p>
  <p>"Yeah. Yeah, I was definitely part of a stoner crew," It's supposed to be sarcasm, but I sound like I'm telling the truth. Fuck.</p>
  <p>Rich cuts in, "A stoner crew? What?"</p>
  <p>"Yeah, whatever. So you knew Brooke, right? Weren't you like, her boyfriend or something?"</p>
  <p>And that's the question that completely breaks me.</p>
  <p>I can't move. I thought I could escape this. I thought I could escape <em>her, </em>but I can't.</p>
  <p>"Yeah, I, ah, I guess I knew her. But I—I wasn't her boyfriend," but everyone knew she felt something more for me. Hell, even <em>I</em> knew that she felt more for me, and I—</p>
  <p>"You were there when it happened, right? That must've been so awful, it really must have been." There's no real sympathy in this chick's voice. That's because she's mocking me. She's fucking <em>mocking</em> me, and I <em>know</em> she's mocking me.</p>
</div><p>I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Fuck this. Fuck these kids. Fuck the smiles they're struggling to hold back—this is my <em>trauma</em> we're talking about. Of course I'm going to sit here frozen still, just like this, as memories I tried to block out come back.</p><p>It isn't fucking <em>funny. </em>It makes me want to curl up and <em>die. </em>I just want to curl up and fucking die.</p><p>I force myself to stand up; my body feels so heavy. Forget how it feels when I grab my backpack—that feels like I'm being forced to hold up the sky. This is awful. This is so fucking awful, I hate this.</p><p>Rich grabs my arm, "Where are you going?"</p><p>"Bathroom." I say. He frowns. I feel like I owe him an explanation, so I come up with something on the spot. "I'm, uh...having my period."</p><p>And with that, I walk away. Jesus fuck, Jeremy. You couldn't have thought of a better excuse? You're such an idiot.</p><p>Luckily, when I get there, the bathroom's empty. I check every time when I decide to stick around and hide in a stall. Today, I decide to hide in the big stall, the same one I ate lunch in yesterday. Damn, that was yesterday. It feels like it was centuries ago.</p><p>I just vibe on the floor for a while, I guess, attempting to keep myself grounded before I spiral into a panic attack. It isn't helping a whole lot, but whatevs. I hear the door open, and I go completely still. Someone being in here is honestly the least of my concern, though; I'm just trying to avoid thinking about it. Just don't think about Brooke. Don't think about Brooke.</p><p>That doesn't help. I start thinking. Long blonde hair, my sweater, that reassuring, happy smile, the passenger's seat—</p><p><em>No! Stop. </em>No more of that.</p><p>I thought that maybe I could have one good day, but no. I had to find out that everyone just makes fun of me behind my back. It's hard to forget what happened when people at school <em>know</em> what happened, when they <em>know</em> how fucked up I am.</p><p>Wait a minute, what the hell is that noise? Is someone really in here? And are they...peeing? Ew. Maybe the bathroom isn't the best place to have a breakdown.</p><p>The door opens again. Great, more guys have come in here to either pee or bother me or take a shit. It's so annoying. I hate it here.</p><p>"Hey," wait, it's Rich's voice. Forget what I said a second ago. "are you in here?"</p><p>"Last stall." I catch myself saying.</p><p>I hear silence, and then some footsteps. Then I hear my crush again. "Can I...come in?"</p><p>"Yeah," I mumble. "I'm not actually having my period."</p><p>I get up and unlock the stall door, and there's Rich. We stare at each other for a few moments. It's so awkward. I finally notice our height difference—he's shorter than me, but he's still not the shortest guy I've liked, which is weird.</p><p>I look down. I don't want him to see me. I'm pathetic. I can't even handle one conversation about it without getting what my therapist would call <em>triggered;</em> I'm just that screwed up.</p><p>"I'm sorry. They're douchebags and you don't have to sit with us again," he says. Finally, something I can fucking agree with. "I just...I really <em>do</em> like you. I don't wanna screw this up before it starts."</p><p>He likes me. Does he mean that in a friend way, or in a crush way?</p><p>He definitely meant it in a friend way! Are you crazy, Jeremy? He stopped holding your hand at the lunch table when they noticed, he denied being your boyfriend; he's probably straight.</p><p>I keep my gaze fixated on the floor, on his shoes; black combat boots. Of course—I haven't known Rich for too long, but those boots really suit his entire...vibe.</p><p>"Are you okay?" He asks, resting a hand on my arm. He needs to stop being so nice to me. This is why I have trust issues. One moment they're nice, then they're mean in the next.</p><p>I nod. "Yeah. I'm okay."</p><p>"Alright, good," he says, taking my hand into his again. Goddamnit. "you ready to head back?"</p><p>"Um, actually...I'm good," I finally look at him again. "just go. I'll see you in class,"</p><p>"You sure?"</p><p>"I'm sure. Just go," It comes off a little harsh, but nowhere near scary.</p><p>Rich nods and lets go of my hand. "Alright. I'll see you in class."</p><p>I watch him go. I watch the bathroom door close, and then I'm finally alone again. Being alone is so nice. I can just think—I could panic if I wanted to. There wouldn't be any interruptions, except for maybe the next bell.</p><p>A piece of green paper flutters to the floor from right above me. I spoke too soon; I'm not alone. I pick it up, unfold it, and I read over it; it's another space pun written in that familiar, messy handwriting. It's stupid enough to put a stupid smile on my stupid face.</p><p>Curious, I peek underneath the stall. I see white basketball shoes and the cuffs of someone's jeans. Those are not Rich's shoes or jean cuffs (he does not wear cuffed jeans, sadly), but somebody else's—a boy's. Rich just left, too.</p><p>If Rich isn't leaving the notes, then who is?</p><p>Before I can figure it out, this person leaves as quickly as I noticed him.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>-</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. seven - it’s all for you, it’s never not for you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"The more I think about it, the more it pisses me off."</p>
<p>When I look up, glasses kid is staring right back at me. That's the first time I've ever heard him cuss. I'm almost impressed, but I'm mostly confused.</p>
<p>"Are you talking to me?"</p>
<p>Those big, dark eyes widen. Was he expecting me to ignore him?</p>
<p>"Yeah, um, I'm talking to you," he says, "and I'm just gonna say it."</p>
<p>Suddenly I'm confused. "Say...<em>what?</em>"</p>
<p>"Rich didn't write those notes, I did,"</p>
<p>Everything seems to slow down for a moment. Those wide eyes are now paired with an awkward, nervous lip bite. He looks like he might pass out. I feel like I'm going to pass out.</p>
<p>The zipper on my jacket is begging me to stop fidgeting with it. I'm trying to wrap my head around this new piece of information, but I just can't.</p>
<p>"What are you talking about?"</p>
<p>"It's been bothering me for days," the kid explains. "He just got super jealous when I mentioned it—um, mentioned <em>you</em>...so he decided to take credit."</p>
<p>My confusion would normally make someone laugh, but he doesn't.</p>
<p>"I can prove it to you," he tells me, and he doesn't even let me say no. He starts scribbling something down on a slip of green paper—the same green of the sticky notes I've been getting.</p>
<p>"Jeez, I can't spell. It makes me upset if I try too hard," he hands me the slip of paper. "Sorry if there's any mistakes."</p>
<p>I take the paper from his shaking hand; our fingers brush against each other for a moment. He doesn't freak out this time. Instead, he murmurs a quick apology and looks away.</p>
<p>I don't have to unfold the note to read it. Right here, in messy, familiar scribbles, the sticky note reads: <em>let's be freinds. =)</em></p>
<p>He has that same handwriting I've read for weeks and can recognize so easily, and the same way of switching up letters. Fuck, even the color of the sticky note is the same—that is such an obvious clue.</p>
<p>I'm stupid. This weird kid that I don't even know definitely wrote the notes, not Rich, which means that the only good thing in my life right now <em>did</em> turn out to be a lie. Cool. That's just great.</p>
<p>Okay, the signs were obvious. Rich doesn't seem like he's a very romantic <em>or</em> literate person, so it's hard to picture him writing notes for me—but it's still cute. Why did he have to lie to me about this, though? He could've just <em>not</em> done that. It would've made things so much more easier.</p>
<p>Somehow, it gets worse. Just remembered that I thought all that stuff about wanting to date this kid. Not to be rude, but this is awful, and I didn't mean any of that. I was just being a dramatic little touch-starved whore—that's <em>all.</em></p>
<p>I look back up, and the weird kid smiles awkwardly. His teeth are fucking <em>perfect</em>—they're just another reason for me to hate him.</p>
<p>"Why'd you do it? Like, what was—what was the point?" Damn you, stammer.</p>
<p>"I have a hard time socializing, and since you're new, I figured that maybe you needed a friend," he says, "like I do."</p>
<p>He's lonely. God, we're <em>both</em> so lonely—it's kind of super pathetic. This loser's so desperate for friends that he wrote notes to the local screwup.</p>
<p>I read over the note again, then I look at him. "You wrote space-themed pick-up lines."</p>
<p>"I just thought they were funny," he laughs a half-assed laugh. "I'm not...you know."</p>
<p>Gay. He's not gay—I don't understand what's so <em>bad</em> about saying that word. Sure, I wouldn't shout "I'm gay and I like dick!" from the rooftops, but still. He could at least <em>say</em> the word.</p>
<p>"Oh," I say. "That makes sense, I guess."</p>
<p>"Yeah," he says, and the tension in the air just thickens. "Anyway, um, I'm Michael."</p>
<p>"I'm Jeremy,"</p>
<p>"I know," he says—it's <em>cr</em><em>eepy.</em> He turns red. "I didn't mean that in a weird way, you just sit next to me in class, so, like, yeah."</p>
<p>"Yeah." Jesus, I hope this conversation ends soon.</p>
<p>"Do you think that you could...give me a chance?" Michael asks. "I'm not <em>that</em>annoying, you know."</p>
<p>"You don't even know me that well."</p>
<p>"Well, we can start getting to know each other now," he suggests.</p>
<p>What's the worst that could possibly happen? Well, let's see. Embarrassment, manipulation, toxicity, explosions, sharks, arson, arson sharks, rat infestation, falling in love, getting my entire <em>soul</em>crushed, (possibly) nudity, the zombie apocalypse, nuclear war, and above all else, death; one way or another.</p>
<p>Is there any good to this? Maybe. Maybe school won't suck as badly. Maybe a new friendship would reduce the amount of disappointment my mom has in me. Maybe my mental health won't be complete shit for once.</p>
<p>I guess I could play along with this, just for a little bit. It'll be a small temporary thing, something to keep me grounded for a little while until I'm able to work on my own again.</p>
<p>"Yeah," I say. "Yeah. Okay."</p>
<p>"Great," Michael says. I grimace at the sight of those stupid fucking perfect teeth.</p>
<p>"What's...up?" I say—the words feel like gibberish.</p>
<p>
  <em>"What's up?"</em>
</p>
<p>"I'm sorry! I'm nervous,"</p>
<p>"Me too! You have no idea how badly I'm freaking out right now, Jerm."</p>
<p>He's already given me a nickname. It brings back painful memories, but it feels so nice to be called that again. It makes me feel cared for.</p>
<p>"I know that we just became friends and all," he thinks we're friends just after one conversation. Weird. "But maybe we should get slushies after school? At the Seven-Eleven?"</p>
<p>"Today?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," he says, "if you want. My parents don't care what time I get home, so..."</p>
<p>"I'll think about it."</p>
<p>"Cool," he nods a rather awkward nod, "cool. Let me know when you've made up your mind."</p>
<p>For the first time in a while, Michael breaks eye contact. He turns his attention back to his worksheet. I watch for a second, but only a second—he isn't nearly as focused as he should be. I'm not focused either, clearly, but I can't seem to look away. I notice how he doodles instead. I wonder what he's doodling.</p>
<p>I can feel my hands—they're shaking. My hands are shaking from that one interaction. God, I hate being a fidgety, nervous fuck; I hate being me in general.</p>
<p>A better version of me wouldn't have slipped up like that. A better version of me would've straight-up told this kid that I'm not interested in being his <em>homie</em> or whatever. A better version of me wouldn't have so many strong, conflicting emotions swirling around inside him—he'd be completely numb, like how I wish I could be.</p>
<p>Fuck the universe for making me feel something.</p>
<p>The bell rings, and Michael's gone within a couple of seconds. I sit here, stupid, knowing I should get to my next class, but I can't stop thinking.</p>
<p>I think about stupid brown eyes, oversized thick-framed glasses, that dumb as all hell smile. I think about the way Michael probably thinks he knows everything but he doesn't know anything. God, something about him pisses me off so badly, but I still wouldn't mind being around him.</p>
<p>I blink once, and suddenly I'm no longer stuck inside my mind. I'm away from my thoughts, just existing, floating in space. I forget about my shaking hands. I forget about everything.</p>
<p>It feels like none of it ever happened.</p>
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